Cradle
by it's just another daydream
Summary: [Based on OAV] When Miyu sleeps, Lava thinks. [FicletOne-shot]


**Cradle**

She confused him like no other.

Less than an hour before, he recalled, her golden eyes had glowed with energy that only a child would have, her smile easy and wide. She'd been drunk from her Hunt, he realized, though she wasn't as delirious as he remembered; oft-times, he'd been privy to her indecipherable speech patterns after she'd consumed blood, the ecstasy of nourishment driving her to the brink of sanity.

She was playful by nature, but a "full" Miyu was never exactly a good thing—not exactly _bad_ thing either, but that was beside the point. She was devious and coy; a temptress with an angel's face. Even through the miles and miles of fabric covering his frame, her heat had seared him, sending thousands of not-exactly-unpleasant shivers up and down his spine. For a brief, guilty moment, he'd almost wished that meddlesome spiritualist had shown up out of nowhere as she was wont to do—her timing was usually impeccable—if only to halt this horrible invasion of his senses. Miyu was a splendid creature to touch and hold . . . but in the state she'd been in, 'sensory overload' was the only thing flashing through his head.

All giggles and caresses—she was a dangerous little thing.

He was silent and unmoving, as usual, but his Mistress knew him too well; she'd demanded he relax, for his discomfort caused _her_ discomfort, and Lord have Mercy on the moron that caused _his_ Mistress discomfort—it was worse than _blasphemy_ to do such a thing. With a self-derisive mental sigh, he'd done as he'd been told and, shortly after wrapping herself in his arms, she'd fallen asleep; golden eyes closing for the next few hours. He was used to her by now, but she was a temptress at heart—animalistic. He didn't sleep—he didn't need to anyway; not yet—and held her a little closer, suddenly preferring his senses going haywire than to stay cold without her.

His voluminous cloak came in handy—and this was one of those times. Gently, he shifted her against him, covering and holding her until she was warmly enveloped within the soft material; to a casual observer, he looked like the protective father, making sure even her bare feet were hidden within the sanctuary of his arms. It was times like these that he couldn't help himself; he knew she was _much_ older than her appearance warranted—_decades_ older—but in the haven of sleep, she looked just like any other little girl of fourteen; with her knowing eyes closed, she looked innocent. Peaceful. Happy. When she subconsciously snuggled against him, he was reminded of a puppy seeking comfort—and he felt his heart ache for her once more.

It had been her sadness that had caused him to hesitate so long ago. The shadow lurking within her eyes. She had not known of her birthright then, but there was a part of her that understood her future—that somehow knew she was not meant for fairytale endings. That tainted innocence had caught him off-guard. Twisted his heart. It had led to his failure and ultimate servitude, but if he had a chance to change it, he wouldn't; in fact, he would have willingly laid his life aside for her—though, it would be nice to forgo the binding mask.

"Lava?"

He held her closer, letting her know he was here.

"Mmm." She was still groggy. "I wish I knew what you were thinking."

He wished he could tell her.

"I hope you're thinking of me."

Behind his mask, he smiled—laughed, if only in his mind. She was bold and astute. Unafraid of speaking her mind . . . with him, anyway. He suddenly recalled her crush on that human boy; Kei. She had somewhat tried to cover her feelings by calling him prey, and whilst it was true that she only fed from beautiful people, he had seen the loneliness there. The longing.

And if it had been true that she thought him only prey, why had he comforted her after the battle with the Shinma Ranka—the Puppet Shinma that had fallen for Kei and took him with her to the Dark? For once, that medium—Himiko—had been correct in saying that Miyu had lost. Not as a Hunter, but as a woman. He'd hated the human woman for saying it, though he knew it to be true; the fact that she had called for him right after was proof of her broken heart, for she would go to no other for comfort—and comfort she needed. As her servant, he willingly gave her the comfort, trying to pour every ounce of strength and understanding into a mere embrace; what he wouldn't have given for the power of speech right then.

She yawned and stretched a little—he moved to give her room, but she shook her head, nuzzling like a kitten into his chest. "You're smiling."

It amazed him how perceptive she was.

"I can feel it," her voice was whispery and soft. "You're smiling. Is it because of me, I wonder—or some distant memory I may never know of?"

He wanted to tell her, but could not, bound by the unforgiving mask. He gently pushed the hair away from her face, undoing the red ribbon that kept it in place; for sleep, she liked as little restrictions as possible. This was a silent encouragement for her to go back to sleep and she smiled, shifting in the nest of his arms. "I'm glad . . . that it is for me. _One day I'll see you smile. . ._"

There will be a day, he wished, that he'd be able to say what he wanted to say—to laugh and smile with her. To offer words of encouragement, even though he had no complaints against the many embraces and affectionate gestures he received daily. Unbound and free—he dreamed of a time when would be those things again; when he could be more of a companion than servant. He would give his life for this childlike vixen that he'd only spoken to once . . . even if it meant never speaking again. Words, though, were meaningless with them, for she seemed to know him better than he himself did—and he knew her more than he ever thought he'd come to know someone.

It pained him to know that he couldn't wash away the pain and sadness he knew was there, lying just beneath the surface of her smile. He was annoyed with himself for not having the power to soothe her troubles as he would have liked. Whether intentional or not, he'd grown to . . . _care_ for this little Lady. It made him feel horribly inadequate that he couldn't at least help her really outside of battle. He felt useless.

_'One day,'_ he vowed, looking down at his Mistress. _'I'll make it up to you one day.'_

But for now, he did what he could; cradle her softly—but tightly—in his warm embrace.

Her silent protector.


End file.
